THE WINDS OF THE WORLD

By TALBOT MUNDY

THE WINDS OF THE WORLD

  Ever the Winds of the World fare forth
    (Oh, listen ye! Ah, listen ye!),
  East and West, and South and North,
  Shuttles weaving back and forth
    Amid the warp! (Oh, listen ye!)
  Can sightless touch—can vision keen
  Hunt where the Winds of the World have been
  And searching, learn what rumors mean?
    (Nay, ye who are wise! Nay, listen ye!)
  When tracks are crossed and scent is stale,
  'Tis fools who shout—the fast who fail!
    But wise men harken-Listen ye!

YASMINI'S SONG.

CHAPTER I

A watery July sun was hurrying toward a Punjab sky-line, as if weary ofsquandering his strength on men who did not mind, and resentful of theunexplainable—a rainy-weather field-day. The cold steel and khaki ofnative Indian cavalry at attention gleamed motionless between Britishinfantry and two batteries of horse artillery. The only noticeablesound was the voice of a general officer, that rose and fell explainingand asserting pride in his command, but saying nothing as to the why ofexercises in the mud. Nor did he mention why the censorship was in fullforce. He did not say a word of Germany, or Belgium.

In front of the third squadron from the right, Risaldar-Major RanjoorSingh sat his charger like a big bronze statue. He would have stoopedto see his right spur better, that shone in spite of mud, for though hehas been a man these five-and-twenty years, Ranjoor Singh has neitherlost his boyhood love of such things, nor intends to; he has beenaccused of wearing solid silver spurs in bed. But it hurt him to bendmuch, after a day's hard exercise on a horse such as he rode.

Once—in a rock-strewn gully where the whistling Himalayan wind wasActing Antiseptic-of-the-Day—a young surgeon had taken hurriedstitches over Ranjoor Singh's ribs without probing deep enough for anAfghan bullet; that bullet burned after a long day in the saddle. AndBagh was—as the big brute's name implied—a tiger of a horse,unweakened even by monsoon weather, and his habit was to spring withterrific suddenness when his rider moved on him.

So Ranjoor Singh sat still. He was willing to eat agony at any time forthe squadron's sake—for a squadron of Outram's Own is a unity tomarvel at, or envy; and its leader a man to be forgiven spurs ahalf-inch longer than the regulation. As a soldier, however, he wascareful of himself when occasion offered.

Sikh-soldier-wise, he preferred Bagh to all other horses in the world,because it had needed persuasion, much stroking of a black beard—tohide anxiety—and many a secret night-ride—to sweat the brute'ssavagery—before the colonel-sahib could be made to see his virtues asa charger and accept him into the regiment. Sikh-wise, he loved allthings that expressed in any way his own unconquerable fire. Most ofall, however, he loved the squadron; there was no woman, nor anythingbetween him and D Squadron; but Bagh came next.

Spurs were not needed when the general ceased speaking, and the Britishcolonel of Outram's Own shouted an order. Bagh, brute energy beneathhand-polished hair and plastered dirt, sprang like a loosedHell-tantrum, and his rider's lips drew tight over clenched teeth as hemastered self, agony and horse in one man's effort. Fight how he would,heel, tooth and

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THE WINDS OF THE WORLD